


Watching

by wallofglass



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Live Bush Universe, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 12:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallofglass/pseuds/wallofglass
Summary: Hornblower and Bush watch each other; they fail to draw any useful conclusions from this.AU post canon - Bush is alive, Hornblower is unmarried, and Bush’s sisters all moved away to be with wonderful husbands so he and Hornblower have the cottage to themselves.  It’s bookverse but I guess could be either.





	Watching

Hornblower took an unconscious breath and pitched forward, the shimmering city of Atlantis beckoning him down into the deep waters of his book. Dark shoals of letters swam past him, tendrils of sentences brushing up against him like seaweed. The heavy cloud bank of ignorance was clearing and he pushed through it, eagerly casting his net for every insight on every page.

A loud snap of fire in the gloomy light caused Hornblower to look up in surprise, realising only now how strained his eyes were becoming. He had almost forgotten Bush sitting quietly opposite him in his own chair, but met his eyes now, as he sipped ale from his mug. Bush was low in his chair, his legs crossed, the wooden peg resting on top, as close to being curled up by the fire as he ever got. He smiled, and Hornblower felt the corners of his own mouth pulled up as if by marionette strings.

‘It’s late,’ he said, more to stop his idiotic smile than out of a desire for conversation. Bush was excellent fireside company because of his silence, not his words.

‘Yes, I can feel it,’ Bush rubbed the line where his stump met wood. It always ached from use around this time of day. Hornblower shifted in his chair, eager to plunge back into the depths of Atlantis, but aware now that Bush had no book or magazine or any of his endless mending of shirts and polishing of shoes to occupy him. The man smiled again, and nodded to Hornblower’s hands.

‘I like to watch you read, sir. It’s like watching you sail. I can see the places you’re discovering in your face.’

Bush’s unusually poetic words drifted out of him like pipe smoke, sleepily coiling round Hornblower’s mind, already half addled with warmth and wine and the easy charm of Bush’s cottage and his company. On any other day he might have grown flustered at this simple admission and the deep adoration it implied, but tonight he met Bush’s flickering, firelit eyes and allowed himself to smile.

***

A hand on his shoulder. Bush had made it all the way across the room before Hornblower noticed him, and he was leaning down now to bestow a kiss to to the top of his head. Hornblower accepted the gesture and covered Bush’s hand with his own, briefly.

‘Goodnight, sir.’

‘I will join you soon.’

Bush stopped, surprise on his open face. Hornblower joined him in bed more often than ever these days, but Bush seemed fundamentally unable to accustom himself to the arrangement. Every time Hornblower followed him upstairs he flushed, every time he appeared unannounced he blinked in sleepy confusion. He never presumed Hornblower’s company and never attempted to access Hornblower’s room, but he was infinitely accommodating in his own. With a sudden shiver of guilt Hornblower added;

‘If you wish me to.’

‘Of course sir. I always wish for you—‘ Bush checked himself and extracted his hand, touching Hornblower’s hair once before leaving, the thumping of wood echoing up the stairs.

Hornblower attempted to re-submerge his mind in the lost city of Atlantis, but found himself distracted and irritable. The crackling of the fire was too irregular and the heat felt bruising. For a moment he cursed Bush for shattering his reverie, but the guilt which always followed such thoughts was quick to settle on him. Bush had sat, possibly all evening, content to do nothing but warm himself and be in his captains company. His commodores company. Hornblower shook his head a little. He was neither thing to Bush any more, yet still the man insisted on obeying his every whim.

Feeling this train of thought to be potentially unhealthy, Hornblower set down his book and began tidying his smoking things. Bush had already hung his jacket and spirited away his shoes, so he crept upstairs in his stocking feet, stealthy as a thief.

‘Mmm sir—‘

It was just like Bush to use formalities when half asleep. Hornblower allowed himself a smile as he slid under the covers. Bush moved closer to him, not quite touching, until Hornblower breached the distance and slid a palm into the dip above Bush’s hip. Squirming at the contact, Bush curled closer to him, settling his head beside Hornblower’s shoulder. 

The candle stub Hornblower had used to light his way to Bush’s bed guttered and died.

***

The morning was so pale and watery that Hornblower thought for a moment he was still in moonlight. The day was betrayed, though, by a cacophony that Bush might have termed ‘birdsong’ but which Hornblower was more inclined to call squawking. Despite this, Hornblower was glad to have awoken early. Bush had an annoying habit of rising and leaving him to go and prepare breakfast or cut wood, or some other tedious country chore, robbing Hornblower of his favourite time of day - the brief few moments before Bush woke, when he was able to watch him sleep.

This observation was not because Bush was particularly handsome, though he had been more pleasing than many in his youth, and retained a hardy charm now, neither was it a romantic meditation. Hornblower enjoyed watching Bush sleep because, dead to the world and it’s conventions, he forgot all of the physical boundaries he worked so hard to maintain, and let himself impose upon his captain most selfishly.

Bush was currently sprawled across Hornblower’s chest. His stump had insinuated its way between Hornblower’s legs, and he was snoring softly. He was totally relaxed, the blankets moulded around him, his brow clear of all those simple, inane, practical thoughts that occupied his waking hours. Utterly unconscious, he allowed his body to jut and prod and poke, stealing blankets and warmth alike. Hornblower watched him, delighting in this lack of subordination.

Soon Bush would wake and they would slip back into their familiar roles, more a comfort now than anything else. All those years spent breaching naval regulations and societal protocols through their physicality, always knowing that one touch could have them both killed, had made the transition to this easy, parochial life so difficult. Sometimes Hornblower felt that this threat, more than any Spanish sabres, stray bullets, or powder kegs, had done the most damage to Bush. In his more honest moments he supposed it had damaged him too. The distance between them was only ever temporarily bridged, in acts of passion and moments of sentiment like this.

Bush sighed in his sleep and pressed closer still, his skin rubbing painfully against Hornblower’s. He leaned into the hurt eagerly, letting Bush repay him for a thousand slights and insults. The racket of birds was swelling outside and Bush would soon awaken and insist upon pulling apart, laying his head neatly upon the pillow and stroking Hornblower’s chest softly, but for now he slept on, quietly, unknowingly invading his captain, like the gentle currents that curl around the seashells and change them into fine sand.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I was able to do these most beloved characters some kind of justice, this is my first finished HB fic, the rest are just years worth of odd paragraphs and plot sketches, so it’s nice to have finally got one done!


End file.
